


An Unexpected Apology

by mltrefry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Not shippy but still shippy, conversation after the holy water conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mltrefry/pseuds/mltrefry
Summary: Crowley wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to the park, not with the way he knew, somehow, deep down, how the angel would react. He should have known better.A short divergence in canon post Saint James Park, and the Holy Water Debacle.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	An Unexpected Apology

**Author's Note:**

> I had posted this on Tumblr ages ago, and decided I would put it on here because why not! The original post was untitled.

It had been a terrible day. Crowley wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to the park, not with the way he knew, somehow, deep down, how the angel would react. But he had to try, didn’t he? He scribbled the words on the parchment before leaving his home, pocketed them, and nearly threw it in the water at least a half dozen times before Aziraphale came up to him. 

He should have made small talk. He shouldn’t have jumped right to his request, but he was nervous, and Crowley just wanted it out of the way before he changed his mind. 

He should have known better. 

Fraternize. 

Yes, he realized he spat the word, not the angel, but did he have to dwell on their sides so much? Did he have to make it sound so terrible? They’d been friends for too long, been and seen too much for him to still think the only way that they were alike was that they were from the same stock? 

After Aziraphale had stormed off, Crowley waited, watching the ducks, replaying the words in his head. 

_ “I don’t need you.” _

_ “And the feeling is mutual! Obviously!” _

Lies, except, well, maybe only partly. Maybe the angel really didn’t need him. He did he have that book shop, after all. He always imagined Aziraphale was quick to befriend humans, or at least socialize with them enough to know about their terrible sleight of hand.

After a bit, he couldn’t stand to see the water, the ducks, the park anymore. He was certain he could still smell the light scent of sulfur and brimstone the parchment kicked up in the air when it burnt on the water. So he left, and walked around the city for a while, inconveniencing people more than mildly, and staying out well past sun down. He was sure he looked a sight should anyone have caught a glimpse of him, but he really didn’t care.

He tossed his hat on the coat rack, ripped off his gloves, and tossed them somewhere he didn’t care to know. He just shucked his jacket and was about to toss it in a fit of annoyance when he heard a knock on his door.

Crowley paused, frowning at the piece of wood as if he was sure it made the noise just for the sake of it. Then the knock came again, and Crowley pushed the rest of the jacket off his arms and stormed over to it, ready to scare whoever was on the other side into never, ever paying anyone else a visit ever.

He wrenched it open, jaw tight, teeth clenched, scales running up his back, when he suddenly became extremely still.

"I am sorry," Aziraphale said, removing his hat, arm lifting, and presenting a bottle of wine. A very good wine, if the quick glance Crowley afforded it was any indication. 

But the sight before him was far more puzzling, intriguing, wanted, and hated making it more enticing than any amount of good alcohol could be. He could swipe the bottle, of course. Take it and slam the door in the angel’s face, but he couldn’t. He could slam the door and storm back inside, take a nice, fifty-year or longer nap, and forget the whole thing when he woke up. Or, he could hear the angel out. Which, Crowley realized, wasn’t something he overly wanted still.

But then, the angel was stubborn to a fault, which made him curious as to the reason behind the timely apology.

He must have remained quiet too long, staring, because Aziraphale began to fidget. He looked down at his shoes, off to his left, avoiding eye contact. "I believe, in the heat of things, I may have said some things... may have used words in a way that- well, they  _ were _ used correctly, but you may have... fraternize means...."

"I know what it means, angel," Crowley replied, a bit irritated.

"Right. Well, I mean...," Aziraphale met his gaze, eyes soft, voice barely above a whisper. No one was around to hear him, and yet he gave the impression that they were in a crowded room, and he was trying very hard to keep anyone from overhearing. "I do think of you as a friend, Crowley. A very dear friend. Even if I don't say it, even if I am quick to deny knowing you, I can't imagine being on this world without you."

"And yet when I asked...."

"Holy water won't just kill your body, it would destroy you completely." He rushed to say, genuine fear and grief in his brilliant blue eyes. "And I... I can't  _ imagine _ being on this world, in this life without you."

The penny dropped, so to speak, and Crowley finally managed to read between the lines.

"It wasn't meant for me," he said as he stepped aside, letting Aziraphale in.

“You said it was insurance.” Aziraphale reminded, setting his hat much more delicately on the coat rack than Crowley had his own. 

There was the sound of a trotting horse, of carriage wheels moving along cobblestone filling in the quiet before Crowley spoke. “I meant it as a weapon.” He assured. “I’m not sure how, exactly. But….”

“How would it help you?” Aziraphale asked, Crowley, taking the wine and miracling away the cork. “You run the risk of destroying yourself as much as whoever came after you.”

“I don’t know.” Crowley half snapped, leading Aziraphale into the little-used sitting room. “But as I’ve said before, my lot don’t send rude notes. If it’s just us getting seen together, well… I was attempting to tempt you. But if I’m found doing a miracle.”

He nearly startled when he felt Aziraphale’s hand in the crook of his arm, half turning to look at the angel. 

“We can end our Arrangement.” He said gently.

“No,” Crowley said immediately, about to list off the bevy of reasons that wouldn’t be a good idea when Aziraphale squeezed.

“It’s been more of a pretense for years, my dear.” He said. “Neither you nor I get the miracle or tempting assignments we used to.”

Crowley swallowed around the knot in his throat. “And, so, what? You’ll just saunter off to your bookshop, and that’ll be it?”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I do believe I would find myself feeding the ducks at least once a week. Perhaps on a Sunday, in the afternoon before tea time.”

“Right,” Crowley said.

“And, well, I do so enjoy taking in a show or two.” He looked at his feet, and Crowley could swear he saw color coming to Aziraphale’s corporation. “And I can always be persuaded to go to the public houses.”

“So just….”

“I’m saying I would like to continue to… fraternize with you, Crowley, without the pretense of the Arrangement. That is unless you would really rather not. I know you don’t need me, I understand that, but perhaps you enjoy my company enough to keep it on occasion?”

He almost said the truth, that he  _ did _ need Aziraphale. That the earlier sentiments expressed of not wanting to be in a world without him were reciprocated. That, if he were ever honest with his angel or himself, he’d been far past the line of friends for too long to really think on without feeling a touch pathetic for all his infernal pining (he was a demon, demons didn’t pine, they lusted. Pining implies  _ feelings _ , and he wasn’t supposed to have those).

Clearing his throat instead of spilling his guts, Crowley shrugged. “I might.” When Aziraphale’s smile, bright and warm and full of something Crowley swore he was imagining, he turned sharply away and moved to the sofa. “Drinks! Let’s drink, celebrate, or something. Been a while since we got well and truly drunk together.”

“Rome, I believe.” Aziraphale agreed, joining him on the opposite end of the sofa. He miracled two glasses, and Crowley poured.

They remained fairly quiet for a time before alcohol loosened their tongues, and a great debate over the appropriate height for a top hat began what would be a long evening and night of drinking their way through a portion of Crowley’s wine cellar, and discussing various topics ranging from serious political points of the time to whatever ridiculous notion crossed their mind.

When Aziraphale left in the morning, transporting himself from Crowley’s sitting room to the bookshop, the subject of holy water had not been revisited. 

But Crowley found he didn’t mind so much, not right now, anyway. He’d still want the insurance and hoped Aziraphale would be more open to the idea of obtaining it once this new, Arrangement free relationship proved itself lasting. Which it would, in that Crowley had very little doubt.


End file.
